


Constellations

by Ariel Rose (thatchaoticart)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatchaoticart/pseuds/Ariel%20Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's lonely, he's got lycanthropy, and there's no known cure for either. Well, maybe for one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constellations

At night, sometimes, she can feel it slicing through her skin, feel the fire spreading through her, the agonising pain to which she succumbs for a few hours until she wakes in the hospital wing and has to take ten potions a day for three months straight to ever have hope of healing properly.  At night, sometimes, she must relive this in dream or half-dreams, and it always ends in waking with a start, covered in sweat.  Her hair sticks to the pillow, to her face, to the back of her neck, her clothes are twisted and covers shoved to the end of the bed, sometimes shoved off entirely.

 

And at night, sometimes, after these dreams, after she’s washed her face and fixes her sheets and performs a spell that cleans all the damp sweat soaked into the sheets and mattress and tries to sleep again, back to the mattress and eyes on the ceiling, she feels utterly and hopelessly alone.

 

Which isn’t true in the slightest.  She lives in a house with six others, all of whom she loves and who love her, but at night, sometimes, Hermione Granger has nobody else in the entire world.

 

Tonight’s one of those utterly-alone nights, and she’s finished her latest book.  She hopes the study will have not only another book that interests her—she knows it will—but also another way to feel less alone.  She wonders if there’s a self-help book for ‘Feeling Alone After Recurring Nightmares.’

 

After picking out a book from the study she felt might suit her needs, she decides she needs tea to go with it; of course, something with chamomile, as she’s got work in the morning and she can’t stay up all night like she used to.  Once she turned twenty-one, something in her made her unable to function on less than six hours of sleep.  She’s just glad it wasn’t during her Hogwarts years.

 

She’s halfway through fixing tea when she hears the shuffle of footsteps behind her.  Any of the six others who live at the newly-refurbished number twelve Grimmauld Place could be awake, but still, she’s surprised to see that it’s Lupin who’s paused at the table to pick up and examine her new reading material.  He’s in pyjama trousers and nothing else, and Hermione purses her lips as she notices how thin he really is—not for the first or the last time.  She traces the scars of his own doing that stretch across his chest, silver in the moonlight cast through the windows, some raised from cuts deeper than others.  Those others were mere strokes of a silver-inked quill across the parchment of his skin.

 

She clears her throat of the sleep still stuck there, and speaks up.

 

“Have you read it before?”

 

He looks up at her, a smile in his eyes, and shakes his head.

 

“Can’t say I have, but it looks interesting.  Let me know what it’s like when you finish it.”

 

“I’ll write you a detailed book report, Professor Lupin,” she says with a half-cocked smile, enjoying the playful banter.  It’s helped her accomplish the feeling-less-alone goal of the late night.

 

“I know I’ll be impressed as always.”

 

Then he allows himself to smile, and she takes note of all the lines of his face, crinkling around the corners of his eyes and the laugh lines and the way he still looks so tired.  Then she realises why the moon is especially bright tonight.

 

“Do you not sleep before the full moon?” she asks softly.

 

“Not well, no,” he pads over to her and reaches up, getting another teacup out from the cupboard.  He sets it next to hers with another smile, this one close-lipped but even better than the one from before.  This one is meant for only her, while the other could be for any former student.

 

She was fourteen when she had her first dream about him.  They were on the Astronomy Tower, just talking.  Talking for hours, about everything and nothing, things she didn’t remember and things she could recall, all wrapped into one.  And she still remembers the way the night sky looked, and the sounds of the trees bending with the wind and the rustle of creatures far below, and the sound of his breathing, acute and swirling in her ears along with the thrum of her own blood rushing through her veins, the _thump-thump-thump_ of her heart.

 

Since then, something about him has stuck in her mind, splintered there and festered over the years, though not in an unpleasant way.  More of an ‘I’m not going away’ way.  She’s not sure she would want it to go away, either—why has she not thought of him during her nights of being alone?  He, too, is alone—has been for years, and even after getting his friend back, learning the truth of the horrible ordeal Sirius Black and he had suffered, he was once again bound by a lonely future.  Why has she not sought him out on her nights of extreme loneliness, knocked on his door and asked to talk?

 

She shook herself.  There was no reason to be asking such unanswerable questions; she couldn’t change the past—well, she technically _could_ , but wasn’t in a position to, nor would she for something so trivial—so there’s no use dwelling on it.

 

“I can never stop worrying,” he continues, and she snaps back to reality, resurfacing from the lake of her thoughts. “Even though I’ve used the Wolfsbane for years, and it works fantastically even when Severus is not the one making it, I still worry nearly the entire week before the full moon.  And it’s always been that way.  I lie awake for hours and hours, and then the actual ordeal takes a lot out of me, as you well know.

 

“But,” he sighs, “what can I do?”

 

Then the kettle whistles.

 

“You can drink tea with me in the middle of the night, that’s what.”

 

She offers a smile and after they add milk, they sit almost simultaneously at the small round table that doesn’t usually serve a purpose in the large household.  Perhaps it was meant just for this.

 

“I have to return the favour, you know,” he says after he’s taken a sip. “What are you doing up so late?”

 

She swallows; it’s a hard task considering a tight knot has taken up residence in her throat.  She’s never talked to anybody, even her parents, about her problem, about the nightmares still plaguing her and phantom pains and things she wishes she’d been able to repress.  But something about him has always been such a magnet for Hermione’s problems, and she remembers with a strange sort of fondness the times she visited him in his office just before curfew to cry about her woes with Harry and Ron, how they were treating her cruelly this week, or how stressed she was even with the supposed relief of the Time-Turner.

 

“Er—well—”

 

“You don’t have to tell me, you know,” he says, pushing her cup forward.  She didn’t realise she hasn’t taken a drink until he does it. “I don’t mean to pry—”

 

“No, it’s just that I’ve never actually talked to anyone about it before.  I’m not really sure why, I suppose it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but I’ve always felt like it’s my own burden to bear.  But, since you asked, I...I sometimes have nightmares about the battle at the Ministry of Magic.”

 

She looks at him and it’s then she notices his gaze has changed, shifted into something much more serious, like she’s a language he just learned and he’s reading her, translating slowly, poring over the words and drinking in the meaning.  She shivers and looks away as her skin puckers to gooseflesh and she swallows hard again.

 

“And I feel the pain again, like it’s just happened, but I wake up sweaty and gross and then I feel—” her throat closes and she coughs to try and speak again.

 

“It’s okay, Hermione, you don’t have to keep going.”

 

“No, I do,” she finally says, locking her gaze with his once more. “I feel really lonely, like I’ve never had anybody in my life before, or no longer have anybody, and I’m just kind of floating around, trying to find someone but it’s hopeless, and—well, tonight is one of those nights.  And I don’t know why I even feel that way, I mean it’s bloody stupid, with everybody in this house!”

 

She chokes out the last word with a half-sob and shakes her head quickly before downing some tea that’s cooled down with the time of her explanation.  She must sound so stupid to him, so surprisingly juvenile.

 

“Do you feel less alone having talked about it?” asks Lupin, always with the right words, the right questions.

 

She thinks for a moment—her forte—and finally smiles, finishing her tea before answering.

 

“Yeah, actually, I think I do.  It helps to have company this time.”

 

He reaches over suddenly and taps the back of her hand twice.  She tries to focus on something other than the way his hair, brown streaked with grey, falls over his eyes at the slightest motion of his head.  His hazel eyes, somehow reassuring and intense all at once, how had she not paid attention to them before?  Why was she now?

 

“What you feel, that’s normal, you know.”

 

“The crushing loneliness?” She’s not sure if she’s asking him the question, or herself.

 

“Yeah, the crushing loneliness,” Lupin stands and takes their teacups over to the counter, where the teapot sits in its cosy, before he refills their cups and adds the appropriate amounts of milk.  How he remembers her preference, she doesn’t know, but it makes something twist in her stomach, not in an altogether unpleasant way, like his splinter in her mind.

 

“Dolohov hit you with an unusual spell, one that we still don’t know much about.  You know that better than anyone.  But your experience makes you one of the only known people to be hit with that curse, the effects of which none other than you and any others who were unfortunate enough to be struck with it can fully understand.  You’re one of a small number; of course you’re going to feel alone.  And nobody here right now understands what it’s like.  Just like none of you can know what it’s like to be a werewolf—and the one person of our group who does know what it’s like from firsthand experience...he’s not here.  He’s got his own life

 

“So I understand your loneliness, Hermione.  I’ve woken up several nights in my lifetime with that same unbearable weight.”

 

He sets her teacup down in front of her before taking his seat again.  But she can’t think of drinking anything, because the lump in her throat has grown.  Her stomach’s knotted up more.  She can think of nothing but the relief flooding her veins and gratitude and love and desire swirling around in her mind and deep in the pit of her stomach.  And she isn’t sure where desire came from, only that there’s been something tugging at her for years—that festering splinter—that’s drawn her to him, over and over again, the thread strong between them, the thread that never seemed to break, no matter how far apart they were, no matter how their destinies got entwined with another’s, no matter how little they’ve spoken since Hermione’s third year at Hogwarts.  Something about their relationship seems raw but never acknowledged, and because of that, it’s been allowed to simmer under the lid until now, until she is physically and mentally capable of facing her own needs and wants; and the ability to reconcile what she feels with what she thinks she deserves has never been within her reach until now, and it’s up to her to make the move, to lean over and grab it from the air between them.

 

And if she listens close enough, she can hear the rustling of creatures below and the bending of the trees with the wind and the thrum of her own blood rushing through her veins, the _thump-thump-thump_ of her heart.  And in his eyes, if she looks close enough, she can see the constellations she saw in her dream all those years ago.

 

And she feels completely blindsided by it all.  How could she have missed it all these years?  The answer, in front of her, right in front of her, and she was too dull to have seen it.  _Brightest witch of my age?  Rubbish._ Her thoughts are of self-loathing, and yet she has so much love for the man in front of her that she knows she must make room for only one of them.

 

“I take it I was able to help?  You haven’t said anything, so that’s a good sign, right?” Lupin smiles teasingly, and she chokes out a laugh.  It’s better than a half-sob, in any case.

 

“Yeah,” she nods quickly, dropping her eyes to the milky liquid swirling around in her teacup. “Yeah, you definitely helped.  You always were my favourite teacher.”

 

He laughs, and it’s deep and genuine and it makes her cheeks burn.  She feels as if every nerve is on fire.  She quickly finishes her tea.

 

“Sorry I don’t have any chocolate this time.”

 

“No, please,” she says with a short laugh, “you’ve done so much already tonight.  I’m sorry I can’t help you as easily as you’ve helped me.”

 

She glances up and at that moment sees something she isn’t sure was meant for her eyes.  He looks conflicted, almost troubled or unhappy—but it’s only for a brief second, then it’s gone.  He clears his throat.

 

“I’ve survived this many years, Hermione, I think I’ll be fine,” he smiles, and his exhaustion shows even more than previously. “Just talking some about it has helped.  I don’t expect you to have any kind of solution and I appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight.  I think we should probably get back to sleep.  You’ve got work tomorrow.” He is the one to sound almost choked this time.

 

“Yes, _Professor_ ,” she repeats her jest with a grin.

 

Back in the hallway of bedrooms, they pause outside hers, closer to the stairs.

 

“Thank you again, Remus,” she says, still feeling his first name as almost foreign on her tongue, but pleasant.  Like so much of him.

 

“I can’t accept your thanks without offering my own,” he smiles, then makes a noise of surprise as she hugs him.  It’s an impulsive move, but one she feels she can’t go to sleep without making.  She feels a heat spread out from the pit of her stomach as his arms encircle her, hands on her back as he returns the gesture with a hard, genuine squeeze.

 

“See you tomorrow.”

 

“For part of it, at least,” he half-laughs, and it’s then she gets the idea.

 

-o-

 

The next day at work passes almost agonisingly slowly.  For dinner back at home (something Ginny prepared), Lupin doesn’t eat much—as is custom the night of the full moon—and retires early, also custom.  Hermione spends some time downstairs as to not attract attention to any of her plans, playing a game of wizard’s chess with George (as Fred’s happily married, and declared the lot of them ‘too much fun for one household’ and lives with Angelina in Surrey), who beats her despite not being particularly gifted at the game.  She sits on the back steps with Harry for a bit after noticing him there while she washed dishes from dinner, and they talk about the anniversary of his parents’ death approaching and how he might go visit their graves.  Hermione offers to bring flowers, and he smiles and says, “Only if you want.  That would be nice.”

 

Ginny teases her about being an old woman, as has become the habit, when Hermione retires to bed around eleven thirty, which is actually late for her these days.  Hermione sits on the edge of the bed, watching the moon and waiting for its full rise.  At three minutes to midnight, she grabs the book off the bedside table and quietly makes her way to Remus’s room.  She knocks softly, knowing he won’t answer, and offers a smile when he looks up with his werewolf-eyes, only slightly distinguishable from a normal wolf’s, from his position, curled in the middle of the bed.  The sheets are messed up around him.

 

“Hi,” she starts slowly, feeling a bit odd but swallowing her nervousness.  She’s not a Gryffindor for nothing. “I did a little research, and confirmed that this is safe with your Wolfsbane, and that you _can_ understand me, so...I wanted to do this.”

 

She looks around quickly, noting that she’s never even looked inside his room before, much less been inside, and finds it very Professor Lupin.  Books are strewn around, in crooked stacks here and there, and an overstuffed armchair sits by the window.  Another small round table, identical to the one in the kitchen, is adorned with an oil lamp and two books—of course.  She drags the armchair over to the side of the bed.  She sits, tucking her legs beneath her.

 

“I got the idea last night, and thought even if I can’t completely help you feel less alone, I can help.  And instead of giving you a book report as I promised, maybe you would like to benefit from me reading it in a more direct way.  If this bores you—” she swallows hard, “you can always howl at me, or something.”

 

She casts him another glance, and notes that his ears are perked up as he rests his head on his paws.  Then she opens the book and reads the title, author’s note, and acknowledgements before beginning.

 

Occasionally she pauses to shift into a more comfortable position, eventually ending with her socked feet propped up on the bed, or to give her own feedback, her ‘annotations’ as she calls them, critiquing either the writing style, the material and her disagreement with which, or both.  Not once does he howl.

 

At four in the morning, she’s finished the book, and closes it with a smile.  He’s still awake.

 

“Well, I hope this didn’t annoy you more than it might’ve.  I enjoyed it.  At least we get to sleep late, yeah?” She wants to reach over and pet him, but isn’t sure the werewolf part of him won’t take the chance, so instead she stands and moves the armchair back to its original position.

 

“Well...good morning, wolf-Remus,” she says as she stands in his doorway, summoning more courage to say her unplanned, spontaneous, yet even more heartfelt words. “I’m sorry the Wizarding World doesn’t accept this you.  If they could just see this, maybe they’d feel the way I do.”

 

She quickly turns on her heel and leaves.  The splinter has turned into a full-blown plank, and she doesn’t know how to let herself fall into his ocean.  But maybe taking baby steps is the best way.

 

-o-

 

The next day she awakes at one in the afternoon with a start.  It’s Saturday, so everyone is home, except for Ron later on because he has a date with a co-worker, and Harry because he is going to a Quidditch match in Ireland (but not for the Ireland team that played in the Quidditch World Cup the summer before their fourth year).  Still, she hears nothing from Remus, who has busied himself all day, as is custom for the day after the full moon as his strength returns, until she finds a note slipped under her door when she finally heads to bed, again just before midnight, after her shower.  She’s felt slightly disappointed all day, afraid he secretly resented her for not leaving him be, until she opens the note.

 

_Hermione,_

_You really have no idea how much last night meant to me.  If I could have shown you how I felt at the time or just afterward, I wouldn’t feel so guilty, so I apologise for not being able to until now.  I hope this will do until we can speak next in person._

_You’re really something, Miss Granger, you know that?_

_-RJL_

She swallows hard as she curses herself for feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush again at the letter.  She rereads it at least five times before falling asleep with a smile, the note clutched in her hand.

 

She wakes three hours later, not from a dream, but from a vague feeling of loneliness that crept in and settled around her heart.  The note had fallen from her hand at some point, and she sets it on the bedside table as she swings her legs around to dangle off the bed.  She thinks for a moment, and that’s all it takes for her to make up her mind.

 

She pads as silently as she can down the hall to his room, deciding life is too short for her to not do what she feels compelled to do, after recent revelations about feelings she’s had for nine years.  So she knocks softly on his door, and it takes a moment—a heart-pounding, time-defying moment—for him to answer the door, and she’s taken aback by how he looks.  He looks as though he hasn’t been asleep all night.  He’s still in only pyjama trousers—she isn’t sure why she’s surprised—and so she feels even more nervous as he beckons her in.  The click of the door as he closes it behind her seems deafening.

 

“This isn’t how I envisioned our next meeting, but I’m quite all right with your initiative.” He says with a half-smile.

 

“I’m sorry if this is an intrusion, or—but you weren’t asleep, right?” Her thoughts are a jumble, and her brain has trouble connecting to her mouth.  Neurons aren’t firing right.

 

“Right as almost-always,” he gestures toward the armchair, but she remains standing just by the door.  He has not moved either. “And it’s not an intrusion, by the way.”

 

“Well...good,” she says unimpressively.

 

“I assume you got my note?”

 

“Yes,” she’s quick to respond. “I really appreciate it, but I hope you didn’t feel like you had to.  I just...I don’t know, I wanted to do something nice.”

 

“Well don’t sound apologetic about it, Hermione,” he laughed softly. “As you know, there’s no need for feeling bad about it.  And the book was mediocre, but much more enjoyable than if I’d read it myself.”

 

“Yes, I thought it was mediocre too.  And, well...I suppose I could feel bad about coming to you so late at night inexplicably.”

 

“Not inexplicably, and if you feel bad, I’m afraid I’ll have to deduct House points.”

 

She lets a particularly loud—or maybe it’s just loud to her nervous ears, her nervous _everything_ —laugh burst from her.

 

“What do you mean, not inexplicably?” she says once she regains composure.

 

“You feel lonely, don’t you?  I imagine after spending last night with someone, and after opening the door to reaching out to someone, it’s natural.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” her voice is soft now.

 

“I’m happy to be your, well, however much I’m a cure.”

 

He isn’t smiling anymore, but not from anger or annoyance or his words not being truth.  She isn’t sure she’s reading him right, but she takes the chance to try and find out from empirical evidence.  She steps closer and gauges his reaction; his expression remains unchanged, his eyes flicker down—she isn’t sure to what—but he doesn’t move away.  Swallowing more fear, she reaches up to drag her fingertips along the unshaven stubble that dances along his jawline, some hairs glistening with grey, but all belonging to him.

 

His breath quickens, only slightly but still noticeable.  She drops her hand to his torso, tracing his scars and feeling the thrum of stories beneath them.

 

“Hermione,” he says, and his voice is low and hoarse, but she can’t think of doing anything differently now, because every nerve is on fire again, and she feels her need in every pore, in every eyelash and hair and bone in her body, every cell and fingertip and toe, and she leans up and kisses him.

 

She feels him stiffen, and his hand shoots out to grab the wrist of the hand she’s got resting on his chest, but he doesn’t pull her away and he doesn’t back away, and instead he presses his other hand to the small of her back, pulling her hips against his, and she shivers at the sensation and what she feels pressing back against her.  He slides his lips slowly across hers before she sighs through her nose and opens her mouth to him, and when his tongue moves against hers she feels electricity shoot down her spine.

 

Every moment in her life has been leading to this, every choice she’s ever made, even their moving apart from one another—it has all been for this.  Despite all the heartbreak she’s suffered, the teasing and name-calling and ridiculing even from teachers, it has all been worth it, because it’s led to this.

 

It’s led to the way he tastes and feels against her and his callused hands from rough nights dragging against her skin and whispered “we shouldn’t”s and kisses on her neck and lips on her breasts, on her stomach, on the insides of her knees and her thighs and on _her_.  It’s led to the slow and delicious way he makes love to her and the way her fingers curl around a fistful of his sheets and her toes curl into the mattress and his hands card through her hair and to the mingling breath between them and his tongue dancing along her collarbone and her gasps and whispers of all the things she’s ever wanted to say but didn’t know how until this moment, and the entwining of their fingers as dawn bled into the inky night sky.

 

And she’s surprised to not feel shy when he looks at her in the morning light, or embarrassed when they walk down to breakfast together even after separate showers, looking fresh but happy in ways none of the others have seen on them.  And when Ginny flashes a look their way that tells Hermione she has known ever since the first time she crept to Remus’s room, Remus squeezes her hand beneath the table.

 

She might never find a cure for her dreams, nor he for his lycanthropy, but she knows one thing: that they are however much of a cure for each other, and that’s nowhere near half-bad.  She thinks she could deal with that fate, with the fate of seeing constellations in his eyes, for a lifetime.

 

Bugger to baby steps, anyway.

 

-o-

 

**Author's Note:**

> About me: I really hate coming up with titles. So, I’ve been having a bit of writer’s block on Serpentine, and working sudden graveyard shifts at work, and this kind of...happened? after such a night. And you know what? I’m okay with this. Scars and dreams feature prominently in my serious HP works, I’ve noticed, but hey, every writer has something, I guess. Hope you all enjoyed! This will always be one of my favourite pairings, maybe because I’m a little bit in love with Remus Lupin too...)


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